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It was a very good question. I had not anticipated finding her so quickly, nor in my very own room. I raked a hand over my face and let out a sigh. “Then tell me why you went to such lengths to find me in Oxford and then vanished before our meeting?”

She cocked a brow. “I was wondering if you’d pieced it together yet. Everyone speaks of how clever you are … The intrepid Ruby Vaughn … but I confess I was beginning to question that. Perhaps your reputation is exaggerated.”

Suddenly all those dreadful newspaper stories about me surged back to the forefront of my mind. The gossip. The speculation. That’s what they called me. The intrepid Ruby Vaughn. As if I were a ship. Or a damnable racehorse.

“Do you have a name?” Ruan asked, stepping away from the doorway. He was relaxed—shoulders loose—thumbs thrust into the waistband of his trousers as if he confronted spies in our bedchamber every day. Ruan’s lack of concern ought to have eased my temper and yet it only made things worse. All the rage I’d bottled up this entire trip was focused upon her. I’d come here because of her. My mother was dead and if this woman had just been forthcoming with me in December, none of it would have happened. My nostrils flared.

The woman looked at Ruan, the edge of her mouth quirking up. “Violet Devereaux. And I believe you must be the Cornish witch they speak so highly of.”

And just like that my rage mutated to something else entirely … I was going to be sick. I swore beneath my breath, stomach roiling as if I’d eaten a lemon whole. That was why I’d recognized her. I was shocked that Hari hadn’t realized who she was at once.

Violet Devereaux. It was little wonder my mind raced back to those newspapers—a part of me must have already realized it. After all, the imposter had threatened to go to the papers, to splash my mother’s secrets across the headlines for all the world to see.

Violet Devereaux. This dreadful creature standing before me was the infamous reporter, V. E. Devereaux. Headlines flashed across my mind like one of those films Mr. Owen loved so dearly.

THE HEIRESS AND THE WITCH.

MURDER IN THE HIGHLANDS.

MUMMY’S CURSE REBORN …

Each one more salacious than the previous, recounting the adventures of my life, without sparing a single secret. Mr. Owen’s identity and the tragedies of his past were fodder for public discussion—all because of her.

The imposter … the blasted woman standing before me … was the very journalist whose stories had plagued me these last few months. I recognized her because I’d seen her face in crowds. Always nearby but never in the limelight. Close enough to get the story without notice.

If I was angry before, I was incandescent now.

What sort of name was Violet anyway? A wilting sort of flower. Not that I had much room to talk, I was named after the rock in my father’s favorite ring. I was far too old to be behaving like a petulant child and yet I could not help it.

I might have forgiven Violet for breaking into my room—after all, a girl must sleuth from time to time—but having written all those scurrilous lies about me in the papers, trading upon my ignominy and scandal of my youth, profiting off my misadventures … Those were unforgivable indeed.

I finally managed to get the words out, flinging them like an accusation. “You’re that muckraking reporter.”

She might have flinched. Perhaps. Or maybe it was only my fervid imagination. “I prefer to call myself a journalist. Did you know the papers pay three times more for stories about you than anyone else?”

My nostrils flared. I was going to kill her. Right here in the boardinghouse. Murder investigation be damned. I flexed my fingers, barely able to focus. “You were blackmailing me for God’s sake—you’d found my mother and were keeping her from me and now she’s dead. You threatened to go to the papers if I did not meet with you!” I swore loudly at the temerity of this woman, raking my hands through my hair. I spun around, seething. “You are the ever-loving papers!”

She raised a brow, thoroughly disinterested by my show of emotion. “I prefer to call it persuasion. I needed to speak with you—and you weren’t exactly making it easy for me to do so. I’d tried reaching you through the ordinary means and you ignored me. Besides, it wasn’t as if I was actually going to publish that story. I needed your help.”

“I’ve had enough of people making money off the scandal of my name. What I really want to know is what you want and why you, a British reporter, are here when we aren’t on British soil. And…” I glanced up and down her thoughtfully. “You aren’t even British.”

She sniffed. “Neither are you.”

She had me there.

Violet did not answer my question at first, weighing her words carefully. Her defiant chin held high. “I was hoping you could help me. Help us.”

“Help you? And you thought you’d rummage round my room waiting on me to ask, instead of approaching me like an ordinary person? What’s next? More blackmail? Kidnapping this time?”

She let out a breathy laugh. “What would you have done had I had called upon you and told you who I was? Tell me that, Miss Vaughn. Besides, it’s best if I’m not seen with you. It would undermine what I’m doing here. They are in danger. Grave danger.”

“How can I trust you? Believe a word you say?”

Her gaze narrowed at me. “I am not as mercenary as you believe. I came because of a story. I stayed because…” Something flickered in her expression and it almost pierced through my anger. She was afraid.

“Because of what?” I gritted out.

She shook her head.